


so with the peahen

by Red



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Canon Disabled Character, Charles is a Tease, Erik Has Feelings, Flirting, M/M, Mutual Pining, Piercings, Pre-Slash, Tattoo Artist Erik, Tattoos, tattooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 21:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5718214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik thought it was bad watching Charles take his shirt off for Janos, session after session. </p><p>Turns out there's <i>nothing</i> compared to the torment of tattooing your crushes's upper thigh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so with the peahen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leepala (kingofokay)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingofokay/gifts).



> I just wanted to write a little hope-this-distracts-you-from-the-shit fic for leepala. I saw you had a consult coming up, friend, so I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Inspiration for Charles's outfit and general (without ink, pity) look is [here](http://panzercat.tumblr.com/post/136921395734/larygo-x), and the tattoo source is [T.W. Wood](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T._W._Wood)'s illustration of the [lesser bird-of-paradise](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/21/Descent_of_Man_-_Burt_1874_-_Fig_47.png).
> 
> Massive thank-you to mabyn for the quick and awesome beta work!

As a rule, Erik doesn’t fraternize much with clients. 

If he’s being honest, the fact is he doesn’t fraternize much with _anyone_. Full stop. But particularly here in the shop, he tries to keep his words to a base minimum. Though he’s known and talented enough now to be picky about what he does, Erik nonetheless still sticks out enough in the career he’s chosen that the whole aloof asshole persona remains entirely necessary. 

Nevertheless… 

Erik senses the swing of the bell on the shop door before it chimes; he senses the approach of Charles’s wheelchair long before that. 

Why’d he schedule this for _today_? More to the point, why’d Janos have to bunk off the second his own two o’clock cancelled? 

He focuses on prepping his station--which, if he’s being honest with himself, has been mostly prepped for the better part of the hour--and ignores Charles’s approach. 

“Hello to you, too,” Charles says to him, wheeling into the studio like he owns it. 

He may as well, Erik thinks. He certainly spent enough time here with Janos. And his own office is nearly the exact blueprint only three stories up and without any massage tables. 

_Massage tables that Charles is about to get up on_ , Erik’s mind cheerfully supplies, _and pull down his--_

“Hey,” he says, telling his mind to shut up already. There’s little hope Charles hasn’t overheard, but there’s no need to _prolong_ his embarrassment. He looks up from where he’s fine-tuning the machine, and tries to think of nothing at all. 

If anything, that’s even more hopeless. Seeing Charles--as often as it’s happened by now, between the shared building and all those damn sessions with Janos--is a jolt to his system. It’s as heady and arousing as the first time he flew, the metal of a plane all around him and the pull of the earth so different, far below. It’s as good as every time he gets a piercing, something new yet familiar, something he probably shouldn’t do so often but that he just can’t stop. 

Because, much as he’d rather not fraternize with anyone (much less a guy that works in the same building as him), the fact remains…

Not only is Charles _exactly_ Erik’s type, smart and bearded and mutant and a bit built, but in a way he’s just like Erik. Uncommon for his profession. 

Three stories up, Charles works as a counselor. And while his customary cardigans and oxford shirts often hide the fact... he is covered with tattoos. 

While Erik, down here co-owning a tattoo studio with two other mutants, tends toward long sleeves to obscure the fact that he hasn’t _any_. 

Charles is close enough now to touch. 

Erik reaches over for the drawing they’ve already gone over, instead. 

“So,” he says, his voice coming out more unsteadily than he’d like. “Looks how you want?”

Smiling, Charles looks entirely too amused by Erik’s question. He takes the drawing without comment, glances at it a moment, and hands it back. 

“Perfect,” Charles says. 

Erik hums noncommittally. He hates to poke holes in the designs others choose, unless it’s a matter of what’s possible with a needle and what isn’t. Every tattoo is a personal choice. If Erik objects outright to an idea or if it won’t match his style, he simply refuses to do the job. 

But this matches Erik’s style. In fact, it’s the first black and grey piece Charles will be sitting for (Janos’s watercolor aesthetic was stunningly well-matched to Charles’s existing pieces). And, more importantly, Charles had admitted this was the first time he’d be getting ink done anywhere below the waist since he was injured eight years ago. 

Erik can’t stand the thought of him taking this to anyone else. 

“You know the plumes don’t come out the back like that,” he blurts. Was that too aggressive? He turns the page around again, pointing out the flaw. “It’d be simple to clean up. This’ll take a few sessions anyway, we’d still get it started this afternoon--are you laughing?” 

“I’m sorry!” Charles manages, shaking his head. “I don’t mean to, you just… It seems you’ll never fail to surprise me, my friend.” 

The way he says _my friend_ sounds like a term of endearment. 

Like a pet name. 

Erik is not blushing.

“Yes,” Charles continues, mercifully focused on the illustration and not on Erik’s face. “I know better than to question an artist’s eye, but if both Wallace and Darwin allowed the excess of plumage, who am I to judge?” 

Erik snorts, and grabs the paper back. “You’re a mutant in the twenty-first century. You can fact check your bird tattoos by looking them up on your phone,” he grouses, before grabbing a pair of gloves. “Now, if you’re ready…”

He knows Charles is fully capable of transferring up onto the table. Erik has watched him do that more than a few times, when Janos was finishing up with Charles’s back. The flex of muscles in Charles’s sturdy shoulders, in his thick biceps… 

Erik’s a professional. He doesn’t let anything distract him from his work. 

But if he took a stretch break right when Charles came in the studio, every single time, who could blame him? 

“Of course,” Charles replies cheerfully, as respectful of Erik’s time as he always was with Janos. He pulls himself up. 

Erik tries not to stare. He can do this. 

_Be professional_ , he tells his brain. _It won’t kill you to be professional._

Charles pauses sitting on the edge of the table and glances back at Erik. “Pants off, right? Facing away, or towards you?” 

This is going to kill him.

“Facing away. Just… push them down,” he manages, getting out the ink and starting to mix it. “If that’s okay.” 

_You’ve seen a lot of asses in your life_ , he tells himself. _Just. Be. Professional._

“Long as we don’t go at it for hours, it’ll be just fine,” Charles says, unbuckling his belt, and Erik wonders if maybe it’s not too late to take out all his piercings and go to business school. His sister had the right idea, he thinks as Charles pulls the belt from its loops and drapes it on the back of his chair. Mom always says she’s proud of them both, no matter what, but surely she’d prefer another accountant in the family? 

Charles is shoving his pants and boxers down, a maneuver that seems to involve a lot of pushing up on one arm and then the other, a lot of biceps flexing with every motion. Ruthie might have to deal with _team-building_ , but Erik’s willing to bet she’s never had to put up with the most attractive man in the country getting half-naked right in front of you and being expected to _work_. 

The paper on the table crinkles as Charles gets himself comfortable, laying on his side with his phone close by, adjusting his right leg carefully. Beneath the hemline of Charles’s dark blue (and short-sleeved; it is Charles’s day off and warm out to boot, but Erik wishes he’d have more consideration and not show off his arms) shirt, his ass his very, very pale. 

And freckled, Erik notices. Charles props himself on one elbow, and angles to look back at Erik. 

“This okay?” he asks. 

There’s a hint of a smile, Charles’s bright lips just barely quirked up. Erik hasn’t any idea how much Charles eavesdrops, but he imagines it’s a little difficult to ignore his thoughts right now. 

“Perfect,” Erik says. He gets some antibacterial soap on a paper towel, grabs the razor, and wheels up closer. Charles settles down again, seeming utterly at ease. Erik pushes up his shirt a little more, exposing the angle of his hip, and starts cleaning the skin. 

And shaving it. He keeps his mind utterly blank through _that_ part, not letting himself sense the razor any more than to keep it honed as he shaves Charles’s hip and thigh. 

They’ve gone over the placement plenty, but while Erik’s generally happier doing freehand, the detail and size of Charles’s design makes having a stencil practical. Once Charles’s skin is damp, he grabs a marker. “So--beak here,” he says, placing a dot just past Charles’s hipbone, “wingtip here,” higher on Charles’s side, “and tail ending here,” he marks Charles’s pale skin, mid-thigh. “That’s the general idea?” 

Charles glances down at himself, studying the points briefly. He seems to have a good eye for these things, if the caliber of his existing work and his interactions with Janos are anything to go by, and it’s a moment before he nods. “Maybe tilt it a bit forward. Not sure how far in I really want those tail wires going,” he jokes. Erik’s happy to agree. He dots Charles’s skin again, getting an eye of the general layout, before reaching for the stencil. 

The routine of what he’s doing makes it a little easier. He presses down lightly on the paper. Charles’s skin is warm, the muscles of his thigh lax under Erik’s touch. 

In a way, this is a first for Erik, too. He lifts up the stencil, leaving a rough bird of paradise, outlined in indigo over Charles’s hip and thigh. In the past, he’s tattooed over scars, over birthmarks, over scales. He’s never tattooed over paralyzed skin. 

When Charles asked for a consultation, he’d been all hesitation. “I don’t know if you’d be comfortable,” Charles had said, like maybe he’d been told off before. Erik wound up agreeing half because he couldn’t help hearing Charles’s uncertainty as a dare, but also because he couldn’t imagine it to be too terribly different than tattooing anyone else. It’s Charles’s body. He’s an adult and smart enough; if he said it was safe, it probably was. 

“And this is exactly why I’m here with you,” Charles says, seemingly answering Erik’s thoughts. 

When Erik startles and looks up, though, Charles is twisted about to look at the stencil. He reaches down to grab his leg, moving it matter-of-factly, bringing his knee up to see how the plumage runs alongside muscle; how the tail wires twist down toward his inner thigh. 

Erik turns to put the stencil back on the counter, letting Charles inspect the positioning. His face feels warm. Charles is completely unselfconscious, and mostly nude, and Erik is just going to have to deal with this for the next two hours or so. 

And then just put up with it for the next two or three sessions after this one. 

Easy. 

“It’s perfect,” Charles declares, placing his leg back to a neutral position. He settles back down, pillowing his head on one arm. “I’m excited to finally get something of yours.” 

Stretching a little, Erik gets ready to work. He starts up the machine again, and wheels his stool in a little closer. “It’s just an outline, today,” he says, dismissively. Both the wingtips on the right side and the ornithologically inaccurate crest of feathers coming out of the bird’s upper back brush right up against other ink. But from the waist down, it seems all Charles has are freckles. If anyone should be excited, it’s Erik. 

The machine’s humming in his hand, and he leans in close. “Ready?” he asks. While Charles is experienced, there’s literally no nice way to start in on someone’s side. 

“When you are,” Charles teases, and Erik brings the needle down. 

During the consultation, Charles had given him an idea of how this might go. Where the sensation ends, how it gets muddled and hyper-sensitive in an arc that drops low on his abdomen and up toward his spine. How, really, most of this tattoo he won’t feel--he doesn’t have sensation on his hips--and what he _will_ be able to feel might be “a bit intense.” (Erik imagines this is an underestimation, but given the number of piercings in his dick, and the gauges he’s got some of them up to… he really can’t judge). 

Erik did his own research after, just to be sure. But like Charles had told him, the biggest risk was delayed healing. Charles had a low injury, the chances of him having an issue with the other risk Erik read up on--dysreflexia--were slim. 

When the needle first starts in on Charles’s side, it’s clearly a place he can feel. Charles’s body tenses, a suppressed jump, and he hisses out a breath. 

“Hello,” Charles complains, still all tensed. Erik just grins, knowing Charles has likely had it much worse. His whole chest is done, nipples and all, and he was just in here having Janos tattoo over his spine. Erik doesn’t ask if Charles is okay, letting him adjust to it. 

Charles’s breath comes out slow, in measured, practiced breaths; in his peripheral vision, Erik can see he’s staring off at the far wall. Must be a _very_ sensitive area, Erik thinks, working on the wing that curves towards Charles’s stomach. He knew Charles was the type to go inward when it was more painful, seeing him with Janos. And like when Janos was working on him, a vague, muffled sense of discomfort starts to unfurl in Erik’s mind. 

“Sorry about that,” Charles says, one of his hands clenching on the table’s side. 

“Mmm,” Erik agrees, absent-minded. He’s focused on picking out the fine lines of the feathers, picturing what he’ll fill in later. “It’s your power,” he says, “you shouldn’t apologize.” 

Huffing out a shaky laugh, Charles relaxes a bit more. The needle’s a bit more toward Charles’s side, but it’s obvious he’s still feeling it. “Still. Must be odd,” he says. 

“No more than I’m sure it is for my piercer,” Erik offers. He respects her immensely--obviously, if he’s letting her stick needles through his scrotum, which, _yeah_ \--but anything involving metal is, by default, something Erik’s controlling.

Charles laughs again and there’s a spike of something, a kind of flustered surprise or interest, that passes through Erik’s mind. 

He clears his throat. “It may be your power, but you didn’t overhear anything just now, did you?”

“Oh,” Charles replies, holding his breath for a moment as Erik apparently hits somewhere he’s particularly sensitive, “Of course not.” 

They fall into a companionable silence from there. The needle eventually verges over to where Charles can’t feel it, and it’s nothing climactic--Charles even seems to take a moment to register that the sensation’s gone. 

“Now, that is bizarre,” is all he says, and Erik doesn’t reply. The occasional lapse in Charles’s shielding has become a constant, soft low-level hum of _connection_. 

Does he do this with all artists, Erik wonders. Is it involuntary, just a product of discomfort? 

Or is it something more specific? Something about _this_ tattoo? 

Something about Erik? 

He tries not to think on it long. Once he’s down to Charles’s upper thigh, Charles is able to prop up and angle himself to watch. 

It’s not long after that when Charles’s leg twitches. 

At first, it’s just a tiny jump. A minor thing, nothing Erik’s not used to. Clients jump all the time. He keeps his left hand resting on Charles’s thigh as he works, ready in case it happens again.

Which it does. And more impressively, his thigh flexing as if he’s about to kick Erik, and it’s only through years of practice that Erik doesn’t slip up. 

He straightens up, stretching his spine and shoulders as he gives Charles a look. 

“What?” Charles asks, grinning. He gestures broadly at his leg, which is now utterly still. “It’s not as if I can help it. It’ll pass.” 

“For your sake, it better,” Erik grumbles, bending back down to his work. 

Only for Charles’s thigh to spasm _again_ and while it’s true Charles hasn’t any more control over this than does Erik, the fact that Charles finds it _funny_...

“It’s _your_ tattoo,” Erik says, holding Charles down more firmly. “I don’t know why you think it’s so amusing.”

“Ah, the serious artist at work,” Charles says. He settles on his side again, still laughing to himself a little. Clearly, he’s trying to see if the change in position helps, but he keeps twitching now and then under Erik’s hold. “You know, I’d hoped for a first date before you were tying me down. But if needs must--” 

Erik’s concentrating on two things: holding Charles still and stylizing the bird’s leg, and he can’t possibly be expected to hold a rational conversation. 

Or, that’s what he tells himself a second later, right after the words already are out. 

“Usually prefer it the other way around, anyway.” 

(He’ll also reassure himself later that if he’d only _thought_ them, Charles would have still overheard). 

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Charles purrs, and Erik just tries to concentrate on his work, on keeping Charles’s leg from jumping. Flustered, he casts around for another topic, _anything_. Charles’s leg is starting to settle, but he still holds it braced.

“So why a bird of paradise, anyway? That short on obscure Darwin references?” 

The moment the words are out, he regrets them. Last thing he ever wants to hear is someone’s tattoo story. But, oddly, he feels almost guilty having them come out so harshly. It’s not like _all_ Charles has are finches and helixes, after all. 

If Charles takes any offense, though, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he laughs. 

“You really want to hear it?” 

“I asked,” Erik replies, glancing up at Charles for a moment as he wipes some stray ink. Charles is still watching him, his gaze uncanny. Erik doesn’t know if it’s tattooing someone who isn’t reacting to it--who can’t feel it at all--that’s so different, or if it’s just Charles himself.

Probably the latter.

“So you did,” Charles agrees. At least he’s going along with the subject change. “Aside from being a beautiful illustration, and yes, aside from being published in one of Darwin’s texts… They are rather majestic, in their own impractical way, aren’t they? All that plumage, and for so little purpose. Things like that remind you of the true beauty of evolution.” He pauses a moment, staring absently at Erik’s hands as he works, before continuing. “Each mutation may have a purpose, even the ones that seem entirely useless. Or in the case of our dear _Paradisaea minor_ , that may even get you killed.”

Erik concentrates on the next thin line, holding Charles’s thigh with one hand, his heart pounding at Charles’s words. He’d always fancied--for all his unconventionality--Charles was a bit too assimilationist. That, much fun as it is to argue with him, they could never get along outside this building. 

Perhaps he’s been wrong. 

“They aren’t useless,” he says, still focused on Charles’s leg. “They’re a critical part of finding a mate, aren’t they?” 

He can feel Charles’s happy surprise, a sweet-sharp bubbling in his mind, like drinking mimosas. 

“Maybe,” Charles says. “I wonder how well they work. For that.” 

“You _know_ they work perfectly well.” Erik keeps working, ignoring the warmth of Charles’s thoughts. “But if you’re getting this just for a date--” 

“No! Erik. Of course not. I want this,” he says. “Only so much blank canvas, and all that.” 

There’s more to it than that, Erik’s sure, but he doesn’t know Charles well enough to pry. 

“But if you’re _offering_ \--” Charles starts, and Erik shakes his head, slightly. He wipes away a little ink and blood, and considers what he’s done so far. 

“I’ll be getting your pants off again, anyway,” he says. He looks up at Charles, at his self-assured grin. “But, yeah. I’m offering.” 

He bends back to his work before Charles can say anything, smirking to himself. “ _After_ this is all healed up. I’m not letting you ruin _my_ hard work.”

Charles laughs, bright and delighted. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, and Erik can’t stop smiling as he holds Charles’s leg steady, as he draws the long graceful lines of the bird’s tail-wires.


End file.
